


The Guy in the Baby Blue Hearse

by vanillafluffy



Category: The Three Investigators | Die drei ??? - Various Authors, The Trixie Belden Mysteries - Julie Campbell Tatham & Kathryn Kenny
Genre: Career Change, Careers Have Issues, Gen, Glory days of yesteryear, Missing Persons, Parent-Child Relationship, Post-Canon, Who needs college?, You did what?!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-26
Updated: 2018-04-26
Packaged: 2019-04-27 10:43:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14423703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/vanillafluffy/pseuds/vanillafluffy
Summary: For the prompt: "Trixie heads west after college and meets some like-minded mystery solvers". Trixie and Jupiter team up to find Trixie's missing brother, Mart.





	The Guy in the Baby Blue Hearse

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Brumeier](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brumeier/gifts).



This wasn’t how she thought she’d see California. It is definitely not glamorous. Trixie Belden grits her teeth as another car cuts her off on the freeway. When she finds Mart, she’s going to shake him til his teeth rattle. Her slightly older brother is MIA, and Trixie has been deputized to find him. 

“It’s probably a miscommunication,” her father said, as he handed her the boarding pass he’d printed out. “I know he’s been having car trouble--I had to wire him money for repairs last week--maybe he’s having phone trouble, too. I don’t want to worry your mother--” Helen Belden had knee replacement surgery a month ago; her physical therapy is ongoing. “But I’m a little concerned. And since he lives off-campus, I don’t expect the school keeps tabs on him.”

Trixie nodded. “He’s probably camped out in the library,” she said confidently. “I’ll find him!”

That was yesterday morning. She flew out just after lunch, and after a long layover in Albuquerque, she’s in a rented car, headed for the L.A. suburb of Rocky Beach, trying to track Mart down at his part-time job--if she doesn’t get flattened by a tractor-trailer first. 

It’s a relief to get off the busy freeway. Rocky Beach is a pretty little town, she decides, following the GPS directions to Jones Salvage Yard. Not as rural as Sleepyside-on-Hudson, but definitely laid-back. 

Maybe a little quirkier, is her conclusion when she sees the salvage yard. There’s a tall wooden fence surrounding what looks like the whole block--the neighborhood has grown up around it--with a colorful mural painted on it. She gets a good look at it, because the GPS takes her around three-quarters of the block before she finds the entrance.

Trixie climbs out of the rental sedan in the small parking lot across the street, and enters the open gates. There’s junk as far as the eye can see. Okay, mild exaggeration…but there’s an awful lot of it. Like the area just ahead of her cluttered with yard art--benches and bird baths, a twenty-foot tall windmill, and sculpture that looks like it’s made from spare parts.

“Hi, there. Welcome to Jones Salvage Yard. Is there anything I can help you find?” Trixie is barely five-foot four inches, and this guy addressing her is easily a head taller than she is. He’s big in size, too--not exactly fat, but solid. He has dark hair, and he’s wearing a faded orange work shirt with “Jupiter” stitched above the pocket.

“Yes--my brother. I’m Trixie Belden, I’m looking for my brother, Mart. I understand he works here.” 

“Mart? Of course--he’s a great guy. It’s nice to meet you, Trixie. I’m Jupiter Jones.” Trixie shakes his callused hand. It’s grimy from whatever he’s been doing, but that’s not important.

“We’re worried about him,” she blurts. “I went by the college to get his schedule, and the registrar said he’s only enrolled in one course this semester. His landlady says she hasn’t seen him in about a week. There were pay stubs on the desk in his apartment; they led me here.”

Jupiter gives a low whistle. “I’d sure like to know what happened last week. He hasn’t been here since last Wednesday, and he seemed to have something on his mind--he wasn’t his usual chatty self.”

“I know my dad sent him money for some kind of car repairs,” Trixie recalls, “But I don’t know how that fits in. I know he has an old station wagon--what?”

“That’s funny.” Jupiter pulls his phone out of his pocket, and finds a photo. “Here’s Mart’s car.”

Trixie stares down at the image. That’s Mart, all right--sandy hair, sassy grin--standing next to a-- “That’s a hearse,” she says in disbelief. Jupiter nods. “Painted baby blue?!”

“It was that color when he found it,” Jupiter contributes, “and it was running just fine when he was here. In fact, I helped him give it a tune-up a few weeks ago.” 

Math has never been Trixie’s best subject, but she’s crunching numbers now, and it’s alarming. If he’s only enrolled for one class this term, that’s a hefty chunk of tuition money unaccounted for. Plus his stipend for living expenses, as well as the money Peter Belden sent for so-called car repairs…at least five figures, she estimates. Not a fortune to some, but there are certainly people who’d think it was a nice score. What’s her brother mixed up in?

“I’m trying not to freak out, but I’m worried about him,” Trixie admits to Jupiter. “I’m afraid he’s in some kind of trouble, and I don’t know where to go from here. I don’t know where he hangs out, or who his friends are--”

“Take it easy. Here, have a seat--” he gestures to one of the benches in the garden area. “I’ll bring us some ice water. You look hot and stressed. Trixie, I’ve got a few ideas about where to go and who to talk to. We can put our heads together. We’ll find him.”

“Thanks.” Trixie perches on the bench, but it’s no good, she’s too keyed up. After her long flight and what feels like forever behind the wheel, she can’t sit down. 

When Jupiter returns with a carafe and tumblers, he finds Trixie pacing. “Can we just go?”

“Regretably, no. I’m in charge here until our helpers return with the truck.” He takes a seat on a multi-colored Adirondack chair and pours water into the cups, one for him, one for her.

“We don’t need a truck, we have my car,” she says impatiently.

“That isn’t the problem. My uncle owns the salvage yard. Last week, he took a fall jumping up and down trying to compact some cardboard and managed to fracture his hip. He’s still in L.A. in the hospital. My aunt is there, too, staying with friends so she can be close to him. I’m in charge here. We have to stay open, but as long as Hans and Konrad are here, I can get away for a few hours.”

“I’m sorry,” Trixie apologizes. She forces herself to sit back down and accept the second tumbler of water. “I’m so worried about Mart--he was so excited about coming here to school, for him to suddenly scale back on his classes and disappear--”

“Have you slept at all?” Jupiter asks her while she sips the cold liquid. “Because sleep deprivation impairs judgement, you know?”

Sensible. Jupiter Jones is a very sensible guy. When she’s hydrated, he escorts her to the “furniture showroom” of the salvage yard--a recycled shipping container as big as a boxcar--and Trixie is happy to stretch out on one of the couches. It’s clean and comfortable…knowing she has someone who’s local to the area that she can share the search for Mart with is an enormous relief that allows her to sleep soundly.

She awakens all at once, and for a few seconds, can’t imagine where she is or why she’s surrounded by all these sofas and chairs.

Something about flying? To…California. The salvage yard--Mart!

Trixie leaps up, patting her pockets for her phone and car keys. She races out of the “showroom”, and sees Jupiter talking to an older blond man who’s almost as tall as he is. He’s wearing a different shirt than than earlier, she notices, and he seems subtly cleaner.

He smiles as she trots up. “Feeling better?”

“Much! Thanks, I didn’t realize I was running on fumes,” she admits. “Is there someplace where I could splash some water on my face and freshen up?”

“Of course.“ Jupiter indicates a row of rainbow-hued doors. 

Trixie grabs her overnight bag from the car and goes to take stock. Happily, the facilities are pristine; she doesn’t feel icky about changing her shirt or brushing her teeth in there. Once she’s done that and run a comb through her short, sandy curls, she feels even more refreshed.

“You’ll probably be happy to know we’re going to a couple places with food,” Jupiter informs her as soon as they’re on the road. “Mart and I both like to eat, and there are some joints we’ve been to together where they’d know him.”

She hasn’t had anything since the airport coffee she’d had this morning, and nothing solid since late yesterday evening. “Great idea,” she praises him. Her stomach growls agreement.

The first place is an old-school burger joint. Showing Mart’s picture has mixed results. The counterman recognizes him, but hasn’t seen him lately. They get burgers and shakes, and sit down to eat and discuss strategy.

“We went to a food truck that does great Latin fusion. I checked their Facebook page; they’re in Las Palomas--that’s the next town over, but they could have been anywhere a week ago. Or even yesterday, for that matter.”

Trixie gives him a thumbs-up, too busy devouring her burger to answer.

Of course, at the food truck they can’t ask for information without buying something--after all, these folks are busy trying to earn a living. The Quesadillas Cubano are delicious, but Trixie is starting to feel nauseous. The woman behind the counter shakes her head. She hasn’t seen the young man in the photo. Neither has her husband, the cook.

Their son points to the car and nods. His English comes out jumbled, but Jupiter slides easily into Spanish while Trixie stands there quivering with tension. She took Spanish in high school, but oddly, the word “biblioteca” never comes up.

“He talked to Mart last week,” Jupiter relays. “He was excited about something, something big. Javier doesn’t know what it was, but Mart said something about going to the county offices.”

Once they’re back in the car, Jupiter asks, “Why would Mart be going to the county offices?”

“I can’t imagine,” Trixie is baffled at such an unlikely destination. “Back at home, that’s where the agricultural office is located, but I don’t suppose you’ve got one of those? Mart always used to talk about being a farmer, but he changed his mind in his senior year.”

“I’m sure we have one somewhere. Just a few miles inland, there are thousands of acres of citrus groves. Last time I looked, that was agriculture.” He smiles--it’s informative, not sarcastic.

“No kidding? So far, all I’ve seen of California has been freeways, buildings and more buildings. And a sliver of ocean when I was in Rocky Beach.”

How old is Jupiter? Trixie wonders. She’s nineteen, Mart, twenty. Brian, the oldest, is twenty-two, Bobby is seven years younger than Trixie. Jupiter seems mature--must be, if his aunt and uncle are allowing him to manage their business without direct supervision

It’s only a number, but-- She finally asks him, because she’s curious--okay, nosy!--and he raises one eyebrow. “Why do you need to know?”

“I just wondered,” she says, trying to sound interested the way Honey would. The difference being, Trixie admits to herself, that Honey would want to know about him as a person, but she’s trying to put together the pieces of a puzzle. She modifies her question. “Are you in school with Mart, is that how you guys met?”

Jupiter answers obliquely, “We met in an Earth Sciences class--we got into an argument about a point the professor was trying to make, spent ten minutes bickering, and when we were done, the professor said he hoped everybody had been taking notes, because we’d covered every point he’d planned to make, in half the time.”

Trixie almost laughs at the smug grin on his face. No wonder he and Mart are friends! “I can see why you guys get along,” she muses, “even though you’re…a few years older?”

Jupiter chuckles. “Mart was right. You _are_ like a dog with a bone.” He’s amused, but admits, “I turned twenty-three in August. Before you ask, no I’m not officially in college. I audit classes.”

“I didn’t ask.” Although he’s right, she would have.

“No, Trixie, you didn’t.” His voice is a pleasant rumble. “So I’m going to tell you my life story in five miles or less. My folks died in a car accident when I was a kid. Uncle Titus, my dad’s older brother, and my Aunt Matilda took me in. It was pretty unconventional compared to what you had, to hear Mart talk about it. You saw our fence--it’s not exactly white picket.

“The night of my high school graduation, I was supposed to give the Valedictorian’s address but Aunt Matilda had a stroke. There were a lot of medical bills, and I was needed at home, so going away to college never happened. It stinks, but she’s bounced back, and that’s the important thing.”

“Oh wow, that’s awful.” She feels terrible that he’s telling her all this; it must be painful for him. “The reason my dad sent me to look for Mart is, I flunked out of school.” Sharing her own predicament is the only thing she can think of to make the moment less awkward. “I was majoring in Film…I didn’t really know what I wanted to do, and that sounded easy enough--I mean, you watch movies all day, right?” She sighs and tries to smile. “I didn’t know you had to write analysises for everything. Or great big term papers and dissect every little detail.”

“The plural of analysis is analyses,” he tells her informative as always, but right now, it feels like a reminder of how ignorant she is..

Trixie blinks, a tear sliding down her cheeks. “Anyway, I was helping Bobby--my younger brother--with his homework, and Bobby kept hollering that I was confusing him, and I was pretty confused myself, and Dad heard us…so he got us tested, both of us.”

“Dyslexia?” he quiries. Right, as usual. She nods. “That’s rough. Too bad they didn’t catch it sooner.”

“Yeah.” Trixie sighs again. He reaches over and rests his hand on her arm for a moment. He doesn’t say anything, but he isn’t calling her dumb, which is how she feels. How she’s felt since she was Bobby’s age--not smart, not pretty, nothing special. The only thing she’d ever been good at was finding things out…but it’s been a long time since the Bob-Whites….

The building that houses the county offices has two stories and what looks like a rambling addition. The directory in the lobby has a listing for the Agricultural Resource Office.

“Let’s start there,” Trixie urges, turning in the direction the signage indicates.

“Hey, I’m following your lead,” Jupiter shrugs. “Go for it.”

The Agricultural Resource Office is nearly empty. A thin man in a plaid shirt is sorting papers and greets them with, “If you’re here for the composting workshop, it’s over in the annex.”

“No, actually, I’m trying to locate someone,” Trixie tells him. “He told someone last week that he was coming over here.” Her phone has a picture of Mart from last summer, and she shows it to the man. “He’s my brother, and we’re worried about him.”

“Hmm.” Plaid Shirt gives the image a careful look. “No, I’m sorry, but I haven’t seen him in here.”

“We can try Motor Vehicles next. Maybe he had to renew his tags,” Jupiter suggests.

Another man has entered by the far door. “Hey, Ruben, take a look at this picture. Missing kid,” the Agriculture clerk explains as Ruben approaches. “This is his sister.”

“That guy!” Ruben says as soon as he sees Trixie’s picture. 

“You’ve seen him?” Trixie feels a surge of energy. “When? What was he doing? Did he say where he was going?”

“He was in last week. You’ve got the dual-zoning file?” he asks the Agriculture clerk.

“Got it right here.” Trixie clutches Jupiter’s arm, so tense she wants to scream at the delay.

“He came in last week with a quit-claim deed,” Ruben says to Trixie, accepting a folder from Plaid Shirt. “He bought out old Dale Farley,” he says to his co-worker. “Talked my ear off about organic farming the place, happy as a clam.”

“Do you have an address for the property?” Jupiter asks, because Trixie is standing open-mouthed, trying to understand how her brother could have bought a whole farm.

“Out on Route 19, if I recall correctly,” Ruben says. “Come down to the Assessor’s office with me and I’ll look it up for you. Room 222.” He exits the way he came, and the searchers bolt down the hall to catch up with him at the elevators.

When they’re back in the car again, Trixie takes a deep breath. “He bought a farm? How is that possible? I didn’t really follow what you and Mr. Ruben were talking about. Something about taxes?”

“A quit-claim deed,” Jupiter answers promptly, “is when an individual signs over a property for a consideration.” At her furrowed brow, he continues, “I know something about this because that’s how my uncle bought the lot we use for parking. The individual who owned it was about to lose it for unpaid taxes. My uncle gave the seller some money--a consideration--which the man took and signed over his property. Uncle Titus then paid the taxes, so now it’s ours, free and clear.”

“Oh, okay.” Trixie nods. “So Mart actually _could_ own a farm of his own? Gleeps!”

“I don’t know,” Jupiter says thoughtfully. “It could be a decent spread, or it could be sandy acres-- although this is a good area for citrus.” They’re driving down a peaceful two-lane road with orange groves on either side “It depends on how well maintained it’s been.”

There’s a cluster of buildings at a crossroads, and they pull over to ask directions. Jupiter eyes the general store, but Trixie turns toward the Finest Kind Feed and Hardware. If Mart has a farm, she reasons, he’s going to need farm-type stuff.

“That guy!” says the proprietor when she flashes her brother’s picture. “Drives a hearse the color of my prom tuxedo? Yeah, he bought the old Farley place.”

“Rural Route 19, Box 45…any chance you can point me in the right direction?” 

“Sure.” He gestures and explains the fastest way to get there, ending with, “You can’t miss it.”

“Thank you for your time, sir.” She heads back to the car, where Jupiter waits. “That way!” She points. “I’m sorry, Jupiter,” Trixie says when she’s belted in.

“Sorry for what?”

“We’ve been gone for hours and hours--don’t you have things you need to do at your place?”

“Nothing that won’t still be there in the morning,” he says calmly. “And I’m concerned about Mart, too. Plus, if he isn’t coming back to the yard to work, I need to know so I can find someone else.”

This road is also surrounded by lush dark-green trees bearing ripening globes of citrus. Periodically, there are driveways with mailboxes beside them. Trixie moans with anticipation as they sight Box 44.

“Aha!” she says, stomping on the brakes, halting at the mailbox next to the weed-choked driveway. The box is battered and leans to one side, but someone has given it a fresh coat of white paint, and that someone has also carefully lettered the name ‘Belden’ on the side. “He _is_ here!”

The baby blue hearse is parked near a tired-looking barn. Aside from the barn, there’s a ramshackle chicken coop, and an odd structure that looks like a cross between a giant golf ball and an igloo.

“A geodesic dome!” Jupiter looks intrigued. “Very popular in the 60’s and 70’s, but you don’t often see them any more.”

Trixie doesn’t give a hoot about architectural curiosities. The desire to clobber her brother is back. She emerges from the car, takes a deep breath, and lets out a piercing whistle. _Bob-o-white!_

There’s a burst of furious clucking from the hen house, then the prodigal Belden emerges. “Trixie?!”

Jupiter stands back; smart guy--Trixie has a lot to get off her chest, and nobody had better get in her way while she does. She hugs Mart, yells, cries, says how much she missed him, yells some more…. Trixie doesn’t mean to come unglued; it’s not her usual style at all--but she’s been on the move and stressed for a day and a half, and her earlier nap has worn off. 

“Come on,” her brother says gently. “Let’s go in the house.” He leads her in that direction, Jupiter following a pace behind. “I am not responsible for the decor, I’ll have you know. I inherited all of it.”

A curved staircase hugs the rotund dome, leading to a loft. Along the inner curve of the staircase is a curved built-in bench and a round table that wobbles. Trixie collapses onto the bench. Jupiter joins her, while Mart claims a straight-back chair. 

She looks around curiously. There’s a huge compass rose painted at the apex of the dome with points up to eight feet long, the directions helpfully tagged: N-E-S-W. Hanging down from the center-point is a mirrored disco ball. Well, it isn’t like he can hang pictures on the walls…. Everything in sight is dull, dusty and battered. Trixie is hard-pressed to see anything that’s younger than she is, from the decrepit sofa and recliner to the battered coffee pot. Maybe the canned goods in the pantry, but that’s about it.

“Moms would take one look at this place and burst into tears,” Trixie tells him frankly. “It’s a dump.”

Mart waves that off. “The land, though--the land is great. It’s a smallish place, but I’ve crunched the numbers. It should be profitable.”

“Should be?” She rolls her eyes. “And speaking of Moms, you need to call home, and I’m going to be a fly on the wall when you do.” She pulls out her phone and dials.

“On speaker?”

“My phone, my rules.” Two rings, then a familiar voice answers. “Hi, Moms!” Trixie and Mart say at the same time.

“Mart? Is that you? You’re okay?” The relief in her voice is unmistakable 

“Don’t pay the ransom, I got away,” Mart quips, then says soberly. “I’m sorry I worried you so much. I’ve been really busy.”

“Busy with school, I suppose?”

Trixie gives Mart her most evil glare; it promises she’ll rat him out if he doesn’t give it up. “Uh, no ma’am. I…ah…is Dad there? No sense going through it twice.”

“Peter! Pick up the extension--it’s Mart and Trixie.”

“That was quick,” their father says as he joins the call. “I guess our little girl’s sleuthing skills haven’t gotten _that_ rusty.”

Trixie winces. Being called a little girl at her age isn’t endearing anymore, it’s just more proof of her shortcomings. “I had help,” she starts to say, but her dad cuts in.

“So, young man, where have you been that we couldn’t get ahold of you for a whole week?”

Mart tries to laugh, but it sounds more like he has something caught in his throat. “It’s kind of a funny story,” he begins. “You see, I’ve--”

“You met a girl?” he mother asks hopefully.

“God, no. I mean, no, ma’am. I bumped into this guy--”

 _”Excuse me?”_ His mother’s voice goes up an octave.

“Not that kind of ‘met’,” Mart says hastily. His parents are liberal when it comes to others, but conservative regarding their own offspring. “I mean,” He gets no help from his sister, who snickers in the background. “No, this guy is old. Older than dad--”

“Thanks.” Their dad’s dry sense of humor invests a lot into that one word.

“Really old. Ready to retire old. And he wanted to take his camper and go live with his cousin in Taos, but he needed money to get there.”

“You’re saying you loaned money to a complete stranger?” As a banker for almost thirty years, Peter Belden sounds appalled at the thought.

Trixie stops laughing with an effort and blots her eyes with a paper napkin, enunciating each word clearly. “Stop beating around the orange bush, or tree, or whatever. If you don’t tell them, I will.”

“Should I sit down?” Mrs. Belden inquires tartly.

“You might want to, Moms,” Trixie advises her.

“Let’s hear it,” their father orders. 

Mart’s Adam’s apple bobs up and down.“I bought his farm.”

_”You what?!”_

Mart takes a deep breath and spills it. “I bought his farm, it was his free and clear, I did a title search, and all he owed was back taxes, so I gave him a couple thousand for travelling money, he signed a quit-claim deed, I paid off the taxes, so now it’s mine.”

There is utter quiet on the other end of the connection, not even crickets chirping…. “I hope you’re happy,” Trixie snarls. “The shock just killed them.”

To their mutual amazement, Helen Belden laughs. “I don’t know why you’re surprised, Peter. That’s the same boy who tried to sell our brass candlesticks to Mr. Lytell so he could buy us a new car because he wanted to ride in a convertible instead of a station wagon.”

“I thought they were gold,” Mart defends himself. “Heck I was what, five? I didn’t know any better.”

Trixie chimes in. “He’s the one driving a station wagon now, Moms--you should see it.”

“You’ll have to send me pictures.”

“You bought a farm.” Their father speaks as if they’re words of a foreign language that he isn’t fluent in.

“It’s seventy-five acres, mostly citrus groves. The old owner was too under the weather to do much pruning or cultivating, but what’s on the trees is ripening, so hopefully I’ll be able to sell _something_ this year. There’s a pond, a couple acres of pasturage, a plot where I’ll have organic vegetables in the spring--that’ll probably expand, depending on what kind of farmers market I can get into. There’s a greenhouse out behind the barn; if I get that fixed up, I should be able to get a jump on starting seedlings. Cabbage or winter squash, and the locals say spinach does really well.”

“Why didn’t you tell me about any of this _before_ you jumped into it?” Mr. Belden wants to know. His carefully controlled tone makes Trixie wince on her brother’s behalf.

Mart’s face is scrunched up; he isn’t looking at Trixie, or even the phone. “Because,” he says after a minute, “sometimes it’s easier to beg forgiveness than to ask permission. If I’d gone to you, you would have wanted a detailed prospectus with charts and graphs and everything, and there wasn’t _time_. We were down to the wire with the taxes, I had to scramble to get the title search done.”

“At least you had that much sense.” Peter Belden sighs. “Seventy-five acres for--how much?”

Mart names the figure, and there’s a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. “I’m not happy about your dishonestly. I’m not happy that you’ve worried your mother to tears. I’m not happy that you’ve apparently written off your academic career--”

“Right,” Mart says flatly. “My brilliant career as a philosophy major. What then, I open up the Olde Philosophy Shop? I’m saving you a lot of money this way--after all, Brian is still in school, and Bobby will be, too, in a few short years. I wanted to go into agriculture for ages, but I went along with what my guidance counselor suggested, and it’s not for me--I want to be a farmer.”

Trixie is more than a little shocked at Mart’s rebuttal--they’re not in the habit of talking back to their parents that way, but her dad’s measured response is even more surprising. ”Since I haven’t seen this property, I can’t say for sure, but it sounds as if you’ve made an excellent deal. Your education is still in the budget, so subsidizing this endeavor for a comparable period isn’t out of the question, _provided you have an actual plan_. We can discuss this further when you’ve had a chance to work that out. ”

“You have your work cut out for you,” his wife contributes, sounding cheerful. “Martin, turn on your phone, or charge it, or whatever you need to do, so I won’t think you’ve been kidnapped like your sister. Trixie, sweetheart, please get us pictures, I’m dying to see Mart’s farm. Goodnight, children!”

“Good night,” their dad echoes, sounding tired. The phone beeps disconnect, and the call is over.

“All things considered, that went better than I expected.” Mart looks paler than usual; he’s trying to smile, but he’s obviously shaken.

Jupiter looks at Trixie and changes the subject. “You’ve been kidnapped?”

Both Beldens laugh. Trixie can’t help it; she’s so relieved that her brother is safe, and their folks aren’t too mad at him. It feels good, too, to have solved the mystery of Mart’s disappearance, even if it wasn’t a huge mystery, like the old days.

“Kidnapped?” Mart echoes. “Let me tell you, my intrepid sister has endured circumstances of perilous jeopardy resulting from her pursuit of perfidious individuals--”

“’Perilous jeopardy’ is redundant,” Jupiter retorts. He addresses Trixie. “What’s he talking about?”

“We had a club,” she begins. “The Bob-Whites of the Glen--”

“--because we all lived on Glen Road,” Mart interrupts. 

“And we had adventures--” From there, her words tumble out, with Mart’s frequent contributions, about matching red jackets, jewel thieves, antiques, their whistling signal, secret passageways and emeralds, a treasure hunt to recover a lost inheritance and charitable fundraising, a cavern full of ghost fish--Trixie is more animated than Jupiter has seen her so far, the enthusiasm lighting up her face. 

Mart looks less wan, and when the flow of words lags, he proposes food. “Pork and beans, anyone?”

“Are they organic?” Trixie asks mischievously.

“No, but they were cheap. And I’ve got a whole case of them.”

“Any idea where the nearest pizza parlor is?” Jupiter asks. “My treat.” He pulls out his phone to check, and it turns out that a few miles down the road is a town big enough to support several restaurants, including a pizzeria that delivers. 

After the meal, when they’re all relaxed, Jupiter reaches for his wallet. He extracts two cards, and passes them to Trixie.

“’The Three Investigators, We investigate anything’,” she reads aloud, passing the card on to her brother and focusing on the second one. “Holy smoke--your police chief deputized you?! I can’t imagine trying to get any kind of official endorsement from Sergeant Molinson! He’d laugh himself halfway to Canada!”

“What are the question marks for?” Mark want to know.

“You have to ask questions to investigate a mystery, silly!” his sister answers before Jupiter can.

“They were our trademark,” Jupiter replies diplomatically. “And, like your bob-white whistle, they could serve as a signal of our presence. We always carried chalk with us, so we could let the others know we’d been there, or to blaze a trail. One time, we were stuck in a cave and when the wind was blowing just right, the whole cave _moaned_ \--”

Jupiter has his own stories to tell, and he talks well into the night, about the people they met, the cases they solved, and the gleaming gold Rolls Royce they rode in while they were solving them. “That’s really something,” Mart says admiringly when he concludes. “What happened, are you guys still in business?”

“No…we kind of drifted apart during high school. Different friends, different extra-curricular interests.” Jupiter tries to sound nonchalant. “Pete apprenticed with his dad, doing special effects in the movies, Bob went to school to study journalism--he ended up doing a comic strip. I’m the one whose circumstances haven’t really changed.”

“ _You_ understand,” Trixie says, wide-eyed. “We were so close, Honey and I. We were going to have the Belden-Wheeler Detective Agency, but after we graduated, she went on a mother-daughter trip to Paris, and when she came back, everything was different. Now she’s off at some Ivy League college, and I--” She checks the runaway flow of words. “I can’t go back in time, and I have no idea what to do next.”

“You could get a job,” Jupiter advances the thought. “I happen to know of an opening at a local salvage yard, no experience required…since it looks like our previous laborer has elected to shirk his responsibilities in favor of toiling upon the bosom of the earth.” He give Mart a look meant to be censorious. Mart grins back.

“Great,” Trixie mutters. “Not one, but _two_ walking thesauruses, or however you say it.”

Both of the young men chuckle, but neither corrects her.

“It could be fun,” she decides. “Bobby is certainly old enough to help around the house--when I was his age, Moms had me busy non-stop. And it would be just the three of them--not peeling potatoes for an army--”

“Poor you!” Mart teases. “No time to go to Arizona. Or Missouri. Or Iowa. Or--”

“--get kidnapped.” Jupiter adds, smiling down at her, and Trixie feels an unexpected thrill.

“I accept,” she says recklessly. He’s smart and sensible and knows his way around Southern California--what more could she ask for in a detecting partner? And he’s not bad looking, either…. “I don’t suppose that couch pulls out? You’re going to need some help around here, and I’m pretty sure I can get to the yard from here _without_ going on the freeway?” Jupiter nods.

“Okay, but get to be the fly on the wall for _that_ conversation!” Her brother looks gleeful.

“We can find you a cheap car,” Jupiter s confident of that, “Something that gets better gas mileage than that beast of Mart’s.”

“It can haul almost as much as a truck,” Mart argues, “and when I start taking it to farmers markets, it’ll be distinctive. A unique hallmark of my brand!”

Jupiter disagrees. There has to be a more eco-friendly alternative than a fifty year-old monstrosity that gets six miles to the gallon.

Trixie tunes them out; her very long day has caught up with her. She isn’t aware that her eyes have drooped closed. She slumps against Jupiter, finding his shoulder a perfectly acceptable cushion for her sleepy head. She doesn’t hear her brother asking if she’s awake. 

In her dream, Trixie is following a very tall, sturdy young man with dark hair into a mysterious cavern in search of a moaning ghost fish. She takes a tighter grasp on her flashlight, staying close to Jupiter as they investigate the subterranean depths. He’s wearing a bright red jacket that matches hers, except his has three question marks embroidered on the back.

…

**Author's Note:**

> I thought I'd just pop this out in a couple pages. Little did I know! This beast is *almost* as big as Mart's car, but it was hella hella fun to write.


End file.
